It took nearly fifteen minutes for Bond to find the alley that led into the barracks, then another five before he could start the gruelling climb up the dusty, wide transport track.
Bond forced himself on heart pumping, lungs strained and thigh muscles aching from the effort required to move swiftly up the steep gradient.
Above, he could see the burst of light from the main courtyard; while music and applause floated sporadically down on the still air. The fashion show was in full swing.
At last he reached the rear of the buildings that formed the very far end of the second courtyard. It took a few minutes to find the gap and, as he searched Bond was conscious of the height at which he now stood above the town. Far away fireworks still lit up the night in great starbursts of colour, shooting comets of blue, gold and red against the clear sky. Squeezing through the gap, he hoped that the bulk of the garrison would be away, down in the town celebrating with the locals on this feast of feasts.
At last Bond stood inside the dimly lit courtyard. Already his eyes were adjusted to the darkness, and he easily took in the simple layout. The large gateway was to his left, with a row of six heavy military trucks standing in line to its right. Facing the gates in single file and closed up, front to rear, were four armoured Creusot-Loire VAB, transports de troupes,as though in a readiness position. Few lights came from the barrack blocks which made up three sides of the yard. But Bond had few doubts that thetransport de troupecrews would be in duty rooms near by.
Keeping to the shadow of the walls, he moved quickly around two sides of the square, to bring himself close to the final dividing wall which backed on to the main palace. He found the archway, with its passage and, stepping into it, he was able to see up the wide tunnel, the darkness giving way to a picture of colour and activity.
If his memory was correct, a small doorway lay to the right of the tunnel. This would take him up a short flight of steps and out on to the gallery in front of the Royal Chapel. He was amazed at the lack of security so far, and could only suppose that Murik had his men posted around the main courtyard or still in the town searching for him. Suddenly, from the shadows, stepped a gendarme, holding up a white-gloved hand and murmuring,'Monsieur, c'est prive. Avez-vous un billet?'
'Ah, le billet; oui.'Bond's hand went to his pocket, then swung upwards, catching the policeman neatly on the side of the jaw. The man reeled against the wall, a look of surprise in his already glazing eyes, before collapsing in a small heap.
It took a further minute for Bond to remove the officer's pistol, throwing it into the darkness of the tunnel, then to find, and use, the handcuffs, and, finally, gag the man with his own tie. As he left, Bond patted the gendarme's head.
'Bon soir,'he whispered,'Dormez bien.'
Within seconds he found the doorway and the short flight of steps leading to the gallery. It was not until he reached the elegantly arched passage that the full realisation of his mission's urgency penetrated Bond's consciousness. So far, he had pushed himself on, thinking only of speed and access. Now the lethal nature of matters hit him hard. He was there to save a life and deal with the shadowy Franco terrorist organiser and unscrupulous killer.
The gallery was lined with people who had obviously paid well for the privilege of viewing the fashion show from this vantage point even though it allowed standing room only. People stood at the high arched windows of the Throne Hall to his left and at those of the former royal apartments on the right of the courtyard. Across the yard, the King's Gallery was also crowded; and below, in the great yard itself, the show was in full swing. The main entrance, below the King's Gallery, led to a scaffold of carpeted steps, arranged to accommodate a small orchestra. A similarly carpeted cat-walk stretched out from directly below where Bond stood, probably starting at the edge of the cloister in front of the Queen's chapel. It ran the length of the courtyard, to end only a short distance from the orchestra, and was flanked by tiered scaffolding rising in wide steps on either side, to give the best paying customers a good close view each step being arranged with those small gilt chairs so beloved by the organisers of major fashion shows the world over.
Murik's organisation had certainly drawn a full house, all well-heeled and immaculately dressed. Bond caught sight of Murik himself on the first step to the left of the cat-walk, sitting, resplendent in a white dinner jacket and maroon bow tie. Next to him was Mary-Jane Mashkin, swathed in white silk, a necklace sparkling at her throat.
The setting for the Roussillon show was undoubtedly magnificent: brilliantly lit by huge arc lights, and the ancient arches and cobbles glowed soft and warm in tones of grey and red, sandstone and terracotta. The place was almost tangibly steeped in the history of eight hundred years.
The fashion show which Bond was now watching had an ambience that did not match others Bond had attended. It was a minute or so before he realised that the difference lay in the music. Looking closer, he saw that the musicians comprised a consort, a kind of chamber ensemble, using copies of early, probably fifteenth or sixteenth-century instruments. James Bond knew little about old instruments, having been a devotee of popular music during his schooldays; yet, as he looked, the shapes and sounds began to take on names, slipping into his mind from long-forgotten lessons. He recognised instruments such as the lute, the viol, the cittern, an early flute, pipes and the tambour. The noise they produced was pleasing enough: simple, dance-like, romantic, with strong texture and melody.
Bond did not have to look further than the cat-walk to understand the choice of music for this show. There were six models: three gorgeous black girls and a trio of equally delicious white ones, following each other on to and off the cat-walk with amazing speed and precision. As he looked down, Bond saw Lavender just prancing off as another girl reached the far end of the cat-walk, and yet another was stepping on, to take Lavender's place. The music was provided to match the dress designs. This year's Roussillon collection had undoubtedly been created to reflect medieval costume and patterns.
The materials were silks, brocades, chiffons and cords: the designs ranging from long-waisted dresses, with wide drooping sleeves; to elaborate costumes incorporating trains and surcoats. There was also a monastic look, with heavy circular collars, wimples and cowls; and off-beat little suits, made up of tunic and tight hose, with long decorated pallia which fell to the ground from the neck, or trailed behind the wearer. The colours were dazzling, the varied cuts and shapes enchanting, as they flared, rustled and floated around the models. Bond reflected that these clothes were, like so many collections ofhaute couture,the stuff that dreams were made of, rather than the clothing of everyday life.
Lavender reappeared, whirling to a slow dance, clad in a loose gold creation of multi-layered chiffon, with a short embroidered surcoat dropping ecclesiastically in front and behind. Bond had, to use a surge of will-power to drag himself from his reverie: before the sights and sounds below took control and plunged him into a kind of hypnotic trance. It must be well after eleven thirty by now. Somewhere, above or below him, Franco was waiting with a pellet of death, which he intended to use before the fashion show had ended.
Bond's eyes moved carefully over the crowds, up to the roofs, and any other possible vantage point for a marksman. There seemed to be no place for a man to hide. Unless... the answer came to him, and he glanced upwards, towards the gallery ceiling. Directly behind him lay the Royal Chapel. Above that, the keep rose, topped with the small bell-tower. Above the keep, he knew, there was a loft that had once served as the ringing chamber and store room. The ringing chamber had at least three unglazed windows, or openings. All these looked straight down into the courtyard.